


there's nothing to believe in (and there won't be until we fall)

by Gingersnaps (K___P)



Series: It's not a war crime if you didn't set up the Geneva conventions [6]
Category: Minecraft - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Raccoon Hybrid TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ram Hybrid Tubbo, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Wilbur Soot, feelin good . maybe, first tommyinnit centric fic I think, help girl I'm irrelevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29819478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K___P/pseuds/Gingersnaps
Summary: when all is said and done, the myth of pandora's box holds true.despair remains, perhaps, but hope will never leave.OR: the one in which i talk about greek myths and deliver the comfort of hurt/comfort . for now
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Ranboo & Technoblade & Philza, Ranboo & TommyInnit, Technoblade & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Tubbo (Dream SMP), Tubbo & Ranboo, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Technoblade
Series: It's not a war crime if you didn't set up the Geneva conventions [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1991350
Comments: 10
Kudos: 101
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	1. and it's not all you man (you were just a kid once)

**Author's Note:**

> how we feelin lads . what the fuck . I tuned into Tommy's stream just as he began shouting at dream and I was like yeah !!!!! and then I was like wait
> 
> anyway ginger? possibly doing a multi-chapter fic? more likely than you think . this girl is Thinking lads
> 
> if you wanted to know, the myths mentioned at the start are Persephone (pomegranates), Icarus (birds on a windowsill), the fox and the crow (fox at a tree) and Prometheus (how man got fire)
> 
> for context, Wilbur is Phil's bio kid, and a guillemot hybrid (a British seabird, very nice wings, very neat). Tommy is a raccoon hybrid Wilbur found in the trash that he thought was funny. Techno is a piglin hybrid that Phil sort-of adopted around AE times. they're all human-looking w hybrid characteristics, but picture whatever
> 
> also I imagine at the start of this fic, tech n wil are around 13-15ish, and Tommy's like 5ish
> 
> sorry for the long note I just have Thoughts. enjoy !!!

the prison. pandora's box.

techno had told him the tale of it, of course. back when they were all children, bright-eyed and vibrant, excited for the world and all it had to offer.

the three of them had curled together in front of the fire, wrapped in wilbur's wings. they were still small and soft, outer feathers a gentle grey. from what phil had said, they could be guillemot's wings, a penguin-looking seabird known for leaping from the nest too early.

(phil had joked about having to babyproof everything for wilbur, but the look in his eyes had been impossibly fond. wilbur had grumbled, mumbling something about crash mats and child leashes. tommy had exchanged a look with techno, the two of them grinning into their cereal.

they hadn't realised just how much they took wilbur's wings for granted until they were being hacked off by dream, axe driving itself between sensitive bones and drawing out half-choked screams. tommy had been forced to watch in mute terror, desperate to do something, _anything_.)

tommy had leaned his head on wilbur's shoulder, sighing as a wing shifted to be more secure at his back. on their other side, techno had opened a pretty-coloured book. he'd called it aesop's fables, floppy ears twitching in excitement.

he was still relatively new to their family, having been pseudo-adopted the moment phil had found out he was just a teenager. even so, his tells were easy to pick up on, and tommy was quick to trust him.

even as his entire body thrummed with clear delight, he still shied away from the wings' gentle brushes for a moment. he looked nervous, glancing at the two brothers with an almost unnatural uncertainty.

"i was th- i mean, do you, uh." he bit his tongue, but neither wilbur nor tommy interrupted him, letting him gather his thoughts. techno took a deep breath, then, "do you guys wanna hear some of my favourite myths?"

unconsciously, wilbur's wing raised, curling itself gently around the older boy's shoulders. beside him, tommy nodded wildly, a little in awe of anything the piglin hybrid did. "yeah! that'd be really cool, big man- but, uh, only if you want to, of course-"

a sharp elbow in his ribs cut him off into a wheeze, and wilbur took over. "of course we would, tech. any you have in mind?"

"uh, a few..." techno began to flip through the book, past pictures of pomegranates and birds on a windowsill and a fox at the bottom of a tree. eventually, he settled on a page with a gorgeous-looking box settled on a table, amongst various gifts.

"this is the story of pandora and her box. basically, uh, when pandora gets married, she's given a box by the gods, i think?" his hands were twisting his pink hair, but the waver in his voice began to calm at the sight of the other two's enraptured expressions.

"and she gets told to, like, not open it. the gods assume she won't, and leave her be to go get married. but, at night, she decides to open it anyways."

at that, tommy gasped, just a little. even wilbur raised his eyebrows a tad, drawing the three of them closer together. techno's voice lowers, evening out with confidence.

"the moment she cracks open the lid, though, a bunch of horrible things escape into the world. things like anger, and jealousy, and sadness, those kinds of feelings. so pandora, obviously, feels horrible. she's betrayed the gods, and she's doomed the world. but."

techno pauses. wilbur and tommy, eyes wide, lean forward, hooked on his words. when he didn't immediately continue, instead smirking at them, tommy bat him with his tail, huffing.

"but then, through her tears, she hears something. it's as clear as a bell, and just as sweet, so she opens the box again. at first, she thinks it's empty, just her mind playing tricks on her in her despair. but then, from the corner of her eye, she can make out a shape.

"it's hope. it's small, and weak, and fragile, but it's hope nonetheless. it was all that remained, even as everything else tore the world down."

techno rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little flustered at their attentive gazes. "the myth is supposed to represent, uh, how hope can always be found, even if everything else is falling to pieces."

by then, tommy was practically vibrating in place. wilbur lifted his wing, rolling his eyes, and the raccoon hybrid launched himself at his brother. he immediately began gushing praises, asking over and over if he could hear another tale.

while techno grappled the book out of the reach of tommy's grubby hands, wilbur watched them with a fond smile, shuffling over to lean against techno's side. eventually, the two of them settled down, techno now in the middle. feathers came up to encase them in a cocoon, and techno began to read.

"this next one is the story of how man got fire..."

\---

pandora is often seen as naive, a beautiful young woman floating on the joy of marriage. but this is not the truth.

before her retellings, she was malicious, sent by the gods to wreak havoc on the world.

despair was always meant to be released from its cage, while hope remained small and weak alone.

\---

the past week has been, in no uncertain terms, really shit. over the course of the first day, tommy had speedrun the five stages of grief, shouting his throat raw for sam. when that didn't work, he sat in the corner for hours, snapping at dream whenever he came close.

after that, though, he was just bored. like, he didn't feel bad for dream 'cause he was a piece of shit, but there really was _nothing_ to do in the cell. it had seemed like, finally, the prison was mellowing out the admin's attitude. 

they weren't able to ... laugh together, per se, but they poked fun at each other with jabs that were a little too sharp. when a cat wormed its way into the cell, they cared for it. they no longer glared at each other from opposite sides of the cell, neither trusting the other enough to sleep.

god, he should've known the unspoken neutrality wouldn't last. 

his first sign was sam being unable to let him out of the prison on time. keeping track of the days was difficult in prison, especially with the missing clock, but the regular potatoes set up enough of a schedule to stop him going completely insane.

at first, he had been in a little bit of denial - there was no way sam had forgotten about him, right? maybe he was just increasing the frequency of the food. yeah. that was it. it had to be.

the second sign was when dream began to hoard the food. he still gave tommy enough to live on, of course, but he found himself growing weaker and weaker as the days passed.

but it was fine, right? sam wouldn't let him starve, and so what if he couldn't heal the bruises on his knuckles? 

the last sign was when dream rose to the bait.

he wasn't even sure of what he was saying; words spilled from his lips, biting and cruel and taunting, and he couldn't bring himself to care. even as dream's shoulders tensed and tensed, fists clenching at his sides, he kept pushing.

and maybe he was bitter, maybe he was on-edge himself, but he hadn't seen anyone for over a week! a week straight of dream's voice, wheedling its way into his ears and poking at every raw wound from his exile.

he doesn't know what pushed dream over. he doesn't know what made the admin snap, what made him start truly trying to kill him. all he could remember was the cold, detached hiss.

"you think i'm a liar, huh? then why don't you go and _ask him yourself_?"

and then fists were flying and he was screaming, and god, it hurt so bad, all his worst nightmares come to life, and where was sam when he needed him? where was sam, to pull the admin off of him, to patch up the split skin and the broken bones and--

his last thought, through the haze of agony that clouded his mind, was that he hadn't managed to finish his hotel. it would never open for business.

\---

"what...?" 

tommy's eyes try force themselves open, ears twitching at the voice. it's familiar, somehow, but the pounding of his head and the screams of his muscles keep him paralysed. it's all he can manage to crack his eyelids apart for a split second, taking in the pure white, before squeezing them shut.

the voice, much closer this time, is accompanied by the soft thuds of footsteps. they sound oddly weightless, ethereal; he can't tell what they're sounding on, whether it's wood or stone or grass.

"what the- what the fuck?" the voice is tinged with confusion and panic and a desperation to understand. it's a plea to be wrong, denial in its purest form. "hey, hey, toms, what are you doing here?"

arms heave him up, and he lets out a cry, his breaks and bruises sending a cruel jolt down his body. not even a second later, he is encased in warmth, feathers brushing his arms. it's so comforting, so familiar, that he almost drifts off to sleep.

but then he thinks, wait, what the fuck, and pries his eyes open.

in front of him is wilbur - not wilbur as he was during the revolution, blue coat and hidden exhaustion; not wilbur during the rebellion, swallowed by regret and paranoia; and not ghostbur, blank-eyed and naive.

no, this is wilbur as a sum of all his parts. tommy can't tell where his big brother melts into l'manburg's general into the rebellion's closest ally and bitterest enemy. maybe there wasn't any distinction to begin with.

this is wilbur, fluffy brown hair ever-so-slightly messy, brown eyes wide and filled with sharp clarity. this is wilbur, dark jacket and dark trousers and dark boots. this is wilbur, intact guillemot's wings half-extended and off-white jumper stained with blood.

and he is holding tommy, and there is blood staining his shirt and bruises lining his arms and _what the fuck_ , because surely he didn't-

but no, he can still definitely remember the instinctive urge to claw out at dream, even as his muscles stuttered and seized. he can still remember, can still _see_ , the way his arm had twisted to a completely unnatural direction.

can still feel the rush of true, bone-deep terror as he felt his last life slip away-

right. right, ok, so he was... he was dead. ok, alright, he can deal with that, he can- why was wilbur looking at him funny? was he saying something? ah, yes, he was. then- why couldn't he hear him?

he realised, a little too late, that he had the nails of his right hand hovering over the skin of his left arm. wilbur's fingers, gentle yet firm, were the only things stopping them from burrowing in and drawing blood.

his head snapped up, trying to communicate all the questions he had to wilbur. his big brother just shook his head, offering a hand as he stood up. taking it on reflex, tommy allowed himself to be pulled up, reveling in the feeling of touch without manipulation, without hurt.

"...hey, wilbur," he tried, going for a casual grin and probably failing miserably. his eye smarted from what was probably a bruise forming, and he'd be shocked if he wasn't missing a tooth or two. "fancy, uh, fancy seeing you here, huh?"

wilbur's expression drops, somehow, grief and raw, bottomless pain flashing behind his eyes for a second. he too attempts a smile, and is only marginally more successful. "man, if only i could've gone another fifty years without seeing your gremlin face."

on reflex, he opens his mouth to shout a _hey!_ at him, but wilbur's eyes are focused on the red dotting his hair instead. his mouth twists down, eyebrows furrowing, before he bites his lip and looks away.

around them, the air thrums with tension, neither quite sure what to say. at his sides, tommy's arms twitch. wilbur sighs, rolling his eyes, and holds out his arms.

"alright, fine. c'mon then, you gremlin little ch- _oof_!"

tommy didn't even let him finish, barreling into his arms like his life depended on it. wings came to wrap around him, smooth black edges and bright whites and gentle greys, encasing him in warmth.

"god, toms," wilbur mumbled into his hair, pulling him in a bit tighter. "you shouldn't be here. not yet, not like this."

he didn't answer; he didn't need to. the hand carding through his hair was soothing his aches and pains, and he let himself relax for the first time in ... in _months_.

"...'missed you, wil," he managed to say, muffled in the other's jumper. the fingers in his hair stuttered, then continued.

"yeah. missed you too, toms."

the _i love you_ went unspoken, but heard nonetheless.

\---

(and somewhere, in a land of war and peace, a hybrid clutches a stained bandana to his chest, watching his friend shake and sob without understanding why.)


	2. i can't fucking count (because not one goddamned thing is in its place)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ranboo, tubbo, techno, and dealing with tragedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's my fic and I get to control the hybrid characteristics . I really like the idea of bird hybrid's chirping like birdsong . also it is 3am I can hear the birds outside help I'm so tired I keep talking naps and then not sleeping h--
> 
> can't wait to become irrelevant for the second time from whatever lore comes from tftsmp tonight . pain
> 
> tell me if there are any glaring mistakes, but please enjoy the chapter <3

"i'm... i'm sorry, tubbo. tommy's dead. dream killed him, about twenty minutes ago. i couldn't reach them in time. i'm sorry."

ranboo watches tubbo's back carefully, the ram hybrid's shoulders shaking almost imperceptibly before stiffening. straightening. when he speaks, his voice just barely wavers on the first words.

"i don't believe that he's dead. he just wouldn't die, you know? not a, uh, not a tommy thing to do." he turns, shadow falling on sam as he plasters a grin on his face. "man, i bet he'll just show up in a couple days, laughing about some prank."

his smile fades, for just a second, before returning full-force. "yeah, that'll be it." he turns his gaze to ranboo, eyes fixed on his crown instead of his eyes. "he did this once before, y'know. we had a whole funeral for him. i'm sure he's... he's fine."

both sam and ranboo watch him go, climbing the hillside to get back to the prime path. the sight brings an uncomfortable lump to ranboo's throat; he may not have known a lot about tommy, but he'd seen the two of them around the smp a lot.

tommy would always be in front a step, tail wrapped around tubbo's wrist or outright holding his hand, tugging him along with gusto. even though he towered over his friend, they both managed to seem larger than life itself, the physical reminder of a history ranboo would never know.

now, hunched into himself and horribly, painfully alone, tubbo just looks ... small. he barely resembles the wild-eyed boy from a week ago, defacing the prison and tormenting horses. he's almost unrecognisable.

"... ranboo, i... i managed to get this. from the cell." he turns back, only to see sam holding out a green bandana. or, at least, what once had been a green bandana.

it's ripped, almost completely in two, and stained with so much blood it looks brown. it makes bile rise in his throat, warring with anger; how could sam have let it happen? how could he stand to look them in the eyes, look _tubbo_ in the eyes, and tell them how he'd failed?

he snatched the bandana on reflex, easily ignoring the way sam flinched back. he didn't deserve to be pitied, or babied, or-- or whatever! not when he'd sworn to protect the teens, to protect _tommy--_

but, even though he's beyond angry, he remembers his manners. he bites out a _"thanks, bye"_ before setting off after tubbo. he feels no remorse at leaving sam, alone, standing in the shadow of the server's newest tomb.

\---

he finds tubbo in the bee 'n' boo motel, gaze fixed on the wall. they hadn't gotten round to decorating the inside; that was supposed to be the plan for today, after all. they were supposed to set up rooms to show off to tommy when he got out.

ranboo looks from the bandana twisted between his hands, to the piles of unused materials and furnitures, to tubbo's still form. he doubts they'll get anything done today. it'd feel too hollow.

the motel was created to step on tommy's toes just a bit, after all. anything the big innit hotel did, they'd do slightly cheaper, slightly worse. it was meant to be funny, it was meant to make him huff and start yelling.

if they did any of that now, though ... he twists the bandana through his fingers again, in and out. if they did any of that now, it'd feel too much like kicking him when he's down. spitting on his grave and then knocking over the headstone.

...will tommy even get a grave? sam had been able to grab his bandana, yes, but was he able to get the boy's body? or had it been thrown into the lava, the only evidence of his existence being the blood spattered on obsidian walls?

ranboo slapped his cheeks, shaking his head roughly. now wasn't the time to delve into his own traumas - tommy was the one who died, at the hands of his abuser no less, yet here he was, throwing a fucking pity party for himself?

here he was, bemoaning sam and puffy and all the other adults on this server for not helping, when he hadn't done anything either. he could've stuck up for tommy, could've pleaded with sam more--

maybe if he'd told sam what happened during tommy's exile, he would've let tommy out? surely sam, even as a warden, wouldn't have made tommy stay a whole week with his abuser?

...right?

(he couldn't be sure. he couldn't be sure of anything, anymore, and he was fucking terrified. he would probably never know if he'd had something to do with the explosions that cause the security breach, or if he'd done them himself.

he didn't know anything for certain, except that tommy was dead, and the trail of blood pointed to him.)

tubbo didn't look in his direction as he gathered his gear, gaze fixed solidly on a picture frame resting on one of the few tables they already had set up. he wasn't crying, exactly, but his eyes were watery even as he smiled softly.

it was a scene not meant for prying eyes, even though ranboo was probably tubbo's closest friend now. now that ... that tommy was ...

he shrugs his cape on, a pale blue with a deep velvet-dark underlayer, and sets off towards the nether portal. jack had taken it upon himself to tell the rest of the server; ranboo could do this.

\---

shivering at the crest of the hill, halfway between the portal and the twin cottages, ranboo realised he really couldn't do this. not when smoke rose lazily from chimneys, twin spirals lifting into the clear blue sky. 

there wasn't a single cloud that he could see, a perfect layer of snow covering the floor. phil had been able to figure out a way to prevent mobs from spawning without ruining the landscape, and the arctic anarchist commune seemed all the more tranquil for it.

which was why he absolutely, above all else, was the worst person to do this. what right did he even have to break the news to them? he was just some little passion project, or phil had been suffering empty nest syndrome, or whatever.

how the fuck was he meant to tell them? him, an untrustworthy half-enderman half-unknown kid with memory issues and a habit of helping the very man responsible for literally every bad thing that happened on the server?

_'hey, so i know you and tommy kind of hate each other right now, or at least you think you do, but good news! he absolutely doesn't actively hate you at this moment in time. bad news, uh, he's very dead'?_

...god, no, that was horrible. he was horrible.

why was he pretending to be sad? he-- tommy was rude to him, when they first met, and had gotten him in trouble almost as soon as he arrived on the server. he was loud, brash, and tubbo's best friend--

and. well. he _was_ all of that. and wasn't that the root of the problem? he was once the most vibrant person on the server, presence lingering in the little things: cobblestone towers, intimidation pits, pet projects like crime alley and the advice shack.

he was everything ranboo wasn't, and, although it made him feel sick to his stomach, he had to admit it.

he'd been jealous of tommy, just a little. jealous of the easy way he talked to everybody, outgoing and exuberant; jealous of the way he stood up to dream so bravely, time and time again, even though it hurt; jealous of the almost instinctive nature of his and tubbo's friendship.

he'd been jealous, and maybe if he looked at himself a little closer he would've seen that it was admiration, but he could never talk to tommy again to be sure, because tommy was _dead--_

he took in a deep breath. held it. released it. he's done too much avoiding his issues (tubbo's form, curled into a sofa, springs to mind), but he was quite literally the only person able - and willing - to do this.

and so, with resilience burning at his legs with every step he took, he made his way to the cabins.

\---

knocking on the door, and waiting what seemed like eons for a gruff _come in_ , he felt his resolve begin to drain. but every time he gets the urge to turn on his heel and bolt, he grips the bandana in his pocket a little tighter, and feels a little braver.

he might be the worst person to do this, but he's also the only person to do this.

the door swings open; moment of truth. ranboo steps over the threshold, eyes catching on the ... domesticity of the place.

phil's sewing a hole in techno's cape, singing wordlessly to himself quietly, as techno himself stirs a pot on the stove. he's nodding his head this way and that to the beat, probably not even realising he does it.

it was something that ranboo noticed in tommy, too: whenever he was bored, or antsy, or listening to music, he would tap out a beat on his arm or leg, imitating the instruments and sounds with his voice. he'd said, once, that it was just something he picked up in childhood and never forgot.

(and, to be fair, it was - back when it was just wilbur and phil, still unaware of how young techno was, they would chirp small melodies back and forth. it was a subconscious, natural thing, considering they were avian hybrids. it was in their blood, after all.

when tommy joined the family, he noticed it very quickly. at first, though, he didn't comment on it, scared that wilbur would see him as a nuisance and get rid of him. when that didn't happen, though, after weeks and months of living together, he finally asked what it meant.

and so, wilbur had sat down with him and explained the small nuances in this chirps: the most common, just short melodies, were meant as reassurances and simple _i love you_ 's. they often floated down the stairs and through open windows like birdsong, ever-present in day-to-day life.

tommy had told him and tubbo, a little embarrassed, that he hadn't understood how they could say i love you so easily. but, one day, he realised that they'd hum the notes under their breaths when he came in, or chirped them softly when he arrived home after a long day.

after that, he'd resolved to figure out how to do it too, replicating the noises under his breath whenever he heard the other two sing. the first time he was able to sing it back, wilbur had startled so much he fell off a chair, while phil had watched, speechless.

they were quick to recover, though, quickly burying him in hugs and feathers. even though he couldn't get the chirp quite right, they'd still told him they were proud, cooing the melodies in between words.

of course, when techno joined them, he was even slower to bring himself to join what was becoming a tradition. he'd mumbled something about not being able to get the notes right, and they'd left it at that.

but a few days later, the three of them coming in from the garden, they could hear the lilting notes of a violin playing out their melody. wilbur and tommy had scrabbled at each other in an effort to get there first, and by the time phil had reached them, they were in a pile on the floor.)

"you okay, mate?"

taking a deep breath, steeling himself and squeezing his eyes shut, ranboo held out the bloodied bandana.

the chirping stopped; something clattered to the ground.

\---

techno stared out of the window for hours on end, eyes fixed on the clear horizon. if he focused hard enough, he could imagine the cobblestone tower that used to stand on his front lawn.

at the time, he had groaned and grumbled about it, threatening to tear it down whenever tommy stole one too many of his gapples. but he had never gone through with his promise, even after the ... betrayal. 

but now, he almost found himself longing for the ugly structure, even if it was only a few metres tall. he just wanted something, anything, to remember his brother by.

tommy's house in the smp lands was looted and destroyed on the regular; he'd told techno, one quiet night, that he didn't even remember what it looked like. tommy's house in l'manburg was, as with the rest of the country, reduced to dust and rubble.

techno himself had made sure that no trace of tommy remained in his home: his signs had been thrown into his pit, where everything had been blown up; the random shit tommy put in his chests were reorganised; he used ranboo's axe instead of the axe of peace.

but, now, he realised just how much he regretted it. it was in the ache in his chest whenever he saw a turtle helmet during brewing sessions; it was in the memory of tommy cooing at the cow in the basement; it was in the way the house fell silent with the absence of tommy's singing.

for all he'd told tommy to die, had tried to erase any legacy or trace of him, he hadn't ... he hadn't wanted his brother to truly disappear from his life. even though they were on horrible terms, he still caught glimpses of blond hair in the afternoon sun.

he clutched the bandana closer to his chest, trying to drown out the mournful birdsong echoing throughout the arctic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good news I now have this fic done. completed . bad news I am never fucking doing a multichap fic again what the hell how do people do it . I wrote this in one day and I feel like death
> 
> anyway I've been obsessed w this series ( https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104326 ), it's techno and phil centric and I?? love it?? it's got oneshots and a couple ongoing stories, all from different au's, and the writings phenomenal. I literally can't recommend it enough


	3. the beast refuses to die (and so i guess well neither can i)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meanwhile, in hell and beyond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> manifesting that Wilbur nd Tommy actually made like . a plan . and that wilbur's not gonna be framed as Evil or Irredeemable . however . I do think seeing Wilbur just not give a shit would be nice
> 
> anyway I wrote this before the 2nd chapter, both before and right after Tommy's most recent lore stream, so I'm sorry if the two parts are rly different 😭 in my head, the second to last section is an act, but read it as you will. think, like, method acting??

"y'know what, tommy," wilbur grumbles, batting away the younger's hands from where they were reaching at his pockets, "i think the best thing about being dead was not hearing your shrill fuckin' voice."

tommy, the little bastard that he is, just cackles loudly at him. he pitches his voice even higher, "ohhhh tommyinnit, i'm wil-burr, i have a god complex 'cause i died first, yadda yadda- gimme a break, man, shut up."

wilbur scoffs. "i swear to god, i _will_ just fuckin' leave you here to try find your own way out. now c'mon and hurry up, shortass. god, are you sure you're even six-three?"

he draws to a halt, tommy's indignant shouts echoing in the monochrome train station as he tries to figure out where they are. with every new arrival, the plane shifts just a little, but he quickly finds his bearings and sets off again.

they walk for a little while, past faceless figures and rushing trains, bickering all the way. tommy's tail lashes and wilbur's wings ruffle, but they're both fighting back grins, pushing and shoving each other as they go. 

eventually, they reach a featureless, generic-looking train, grey shell and dark red windows. the door is slid open, and the two of them cross the double-striped line without thinking. behind them, the door closes again, and the train begins to shift beneath their feet.

wilbur makes a motion with his head, and wanders down the hall to the left. tommy, as always, follows right at his heel; the atmosphere felt oddly somber, passing through empty carriage after empty carriage.

after what feels like forever, passing hauntingly hollow carriages without getting anywhere, wilbur stops. he glances at tommy, then the closed door in front of them, then back to tommy. he taps a fist on an open palm, looking almost ... nervous?

"oh, shit, yeah. uh, before we actually get to where i've been saying, i think i should warn you. y'know how both you and i came here after we died, right?"

tommy's face twisted momentarily at _died_ , but he nodded. at the grimace on wilbur's face, he couldn't help the creeping prickles of realisation on his skin.

"well, there is, uh, one more person you should meet."

"wilbur, i swear to god, if it's-"

"wilbur! where were you, loverboy, you just bailed on m-" schlatt broke off, eyes widening as they fixed on tommy. it only lasts a moment, though, before his face relaxed and split into a grin. "so the little bastard finally kicked the bucket, huh?"

"-fuckin' schlatt! oi, listen up you bitch, i'll fuckin' kill you! what the hell is that supposed to mean huh?"

behind him, wilbur sighs, putting a hand on his shoulder. it feels so familiar that he relaxes automatically, but bristles again the moment schlatt opens his mouth.

"so? how'd you manage it, eh? loverboy here got pret-ty stressed a while back, 'fore sayin' you had more time left. so how come you're here now, eh?"

he opened his mouth to retort something, probably about how it was _none of his fuckin' business_ and _shouldn't he be drinking himself dead_ , but the words wouldn't come out. he couldn't bring himself to say it, the memory of fists digging into flesh, bones snapping under constant attack, the manic fucking grin under dream's mask--

...he's on the floor. when did he get to the floor? he can assume that wilbur, a blurry mess of whites and reds and browns, is crouching in front of him. but why? 

noises wash over him without any comprehension, and he leans into the warm hand on his cheek. wilbur says something again, this time scolding, and there is a far-off complaint.

with what feels like momentous effort, he forces his eyes to refocus, tamping down on the ice-cold terror coursing through his veins. wilbur catches it almost immediately, shuffling forwards, just a little.

"toms? hey, toms, you back with us?" he nods, shakily and hesitantly, but wilbur still sighs with relief. "ok. ok, good, that's good. can i hug you?"

this time, his nod is almost instant, and his brother doesn't hesitate to draw him into his arms. he slumps there, letting the warmth wrap round him, as wilbur runs familiar fingers through his hair.

" 's ok, toms, you don't have to tell us how you got here." he whispers, and tommy makes a small noise of understanding. eventually, the older draws back, offering a hand to help tug him up.

schlatt is watching them with an unreadable expression, and it's been so long since he's seen clear eyes on the man that tommy almost startles. when had been the last time? maybe the election results, or, further back, the day he spent with them before his exile.

it's new, and the whispers of schlatt's revival book still echo in his ears, so he resolves to ignore the other man for as long as he can. speaking of-

"so, uh, how long am i meant to stay here?" he asks, completely innocent. even so, wilbur exchanges loaded looks with schlatt, who just raises his eyebrows.

"don't look at me, man, i've been tryna get drunk since I got here."

"and look how well that's going for you, eh?" wilbur snapped, before turning back to tommy. "well, there's no ... answer, per se, to that. this honestly might just be all there is, y'know? no great heroes, no lowly hells. just this."

he feels ... light headed. maybe it's the fact that, to him, he was dead twenty minutes ago, but he can't help the numbness settling into his brain.

"god, technoblade w'ld hate this," he mumbles out, words slurring. wilbur gives him a questioning look, but he faints before he can analyse it.

\---

he floats in unconsciousness for what could be months as easily as hours, just drifting in the void. he supposes there's a lot to take in, and that it's normal that he shut down.

he might as well take the time to analyse ... whatever the fuck he's feeling.

overwhelmed, that's for sure. it feels as if pressure has been building up behind his eyes, his joints, and his shoulders, to the point he feels he might burst. he never wanted to see any of these fuckers again, bar mexican dream, and yet here he is, stuck with them.

(but is that really so bad? a small part of his brain whispers back. don't they seem more lucid like this? maybe death isn't as bad as you think. maybe you were right.

he pushes the thoughts down. for now, he will enjoy spending time with his brother, and consider the consequences later.)

\---

he comes to at the sound of loud arguing and vibrant swears. cracking an eye open, thankful for the low lights of the carriage, he can just barely make out the room (is it a room?) around him.

wilbur and schlatt are sat around the table he saw when he came in, a space cleared on the floor for them to sit on. wilbur's leaning against one of the booth-like seats - the one tommy's lying on - with one wing slightly brushing his fingers.

they're both holding cards, and there's another pile of cards in the middle that they seem to be fighting over. he can't make out the game they were playing, but he wouldn't be surprised if there weren't any real, set rules.

schlatt opens his mouth to retort, then his eyes catch on tommy. "ey, loverboy, the feral little shit's awake."

wilbur was turning before he'd even finished the sentence, wrapping a wing around tommy instinctively as he pulled the other up into a hug. tommy let himself relax into the smoothness of the black and white feathers, before he leaned forwards, wing a comforting weight on his back.

"god, toms, you don't just fuckin' pass out on people in the middle of a tour," wilbur huffs, but he seems more relieved than anything else. "either way, there's not much else that's, like... important. you'll pick the rest of this up pretty quick, i think."

"uhuh, okay, sure. uh, quick question, what the fuck do you guys do all day? like, do you just play cards, or...?"

schlatt shrugged. "it's not much, but it's ours, y'know?"

and he's fucking right.

\---

they spend hours, days, fucking _weeks_ playing increasingly convoluted card games. one time, they spend an entire week setting up a solitaire tournament, playing nonstop until mexican dream finally crashes the party.

tommy never knew how much he relied on the schedule-keeping nature of sleep and meals until he wasted what must have been a full day on a looping game of uno. it was only when wilbur pointed out the time on a pocket watch that tommy realised just how fucking sad his life had become.

he'd gone from, what, building hotels and fighting gods and dancing around estranged family to _this_? playing shitty board games with his dead maniac brother, the dead alcoholic dictator of his destroyed country, and mexican dream?

this was embarrassing.

he slams down a final card, watching with satisfaction as schlatt and wilbur erupt into exaggerated groans, leaning on each other in fake heartbreak.

embarrassing, yeah. depressing, most definitely. 

but maybe he could get used to it.

\---

schlatt leaves at some point, staggering away to another carriage. wilbur watches with critical eyes, tinged with something bordering on concern, before he turns to tommy. though his smile is genuine, something about it puts tommy on edge.

it looks familiar, but he doesn't ( _want to remember, want to see_ ) know why.

"y'know, tommy, i'm really glad you're down here."

he freezes, eyes flicking up to meet wilbur's. there's no trace of his brother on his face, and he distantly recognises that he's putting wilbur in boxes again, but he can't help it. not when the self-loathing glint from pogtopia is back, not when he remembers just why he was hesitant to trust anyone with tubbo.

"...what?"

"look, tommy," wilbur says, and his gaze is immediately drawn to him. wilbur's always been a magnet for attention, for better or worse, and it's what inspired such loyalty during the rebellions. 

(it's what makes this hurt so much more, because his layers of charisma and honey-sweet words aren't _him_ , not the wilbur who stuttered over techno's birthday gift speech, who minced his words when singing.

this wilbur is detached, and distant, and a picture-perfect leader. looking at him now, he just seems like a bastardised version of when wilbur had been real, had been good.)

"we weren't good for the server, ok? every war, every conflict, it can all be traced back to us. we're tied to the history of the smp, completely interwoven with _everything_. it's good that we're both dead, tommy."

his heart pounds in his throat, a staccato rhythm that feels too much like terror, static invading his ears, his eyes, his very being, and he can only think _why me_.

\---

tommy gasps back to life, to an ivory-white mask stained with blood and an oppressive heat in the air. whispers of _we were bad for this server anyway_ float in his ears.

dream opens his mouth, grinning, but tommy surges forwards instead. he grabs for dream's hands, the admin tensing but staying still.

"whatever you do," he chokes out, desperate to make dream listen, make dream _understand_ , "do _not_ revive wilbur."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spotify on mobile is so ............. like on laptop it's just premium w ads . I have a playlist called songs that fuck . my life is in shambles . I did find a rly banging Antarctic empire playlist though, which is the only thing getting me through 😔✌️
> 
> anyway I might do some more stuff in the platonic soulmates au, either focusing on the AE or the ghosts . idk if I'll be able to though, we go back to school next week and I haven't done any work in months 😌

**Author's Note:**

> for the next chapter(s). m thinkin . hell shenanigans and overworld mourning . that would be funny I think
> 
> if my brain works then coming up next will probs be "I can't fucking count because not one goddamned thing is in its place" so look forward to that
> 
> anyway moonsickness + feel better are such dsmp tommy/L'manburg in general songs thanks for listening


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